


No One Used to Die in Derry

by Revelin



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Dubious Consent, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It of Sorts, Human/Monster Romance, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mild Gore, Monster!Eddie, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, kind of, reality is questionable at times, temporary paralysis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 14:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21180947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revelin/pseuds/Revelin
Summary: It's been years, and Richie can't move on. He finds his way back to Derry, intent on dying as close to Eddie's memory as he can. Eddie has other plans. Did Richie really choose to come back, or had something been calling out for him?





	No One Used to Die in Derry

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. I set out one night to write a cathartic Richie suicide drabble. It somehow deviated into multi-chapter monster fucking. Don't worry, there still isn't going to be a happy ending. 
> 
> I'm not an experienced writer and I can't guarantee this will ever be finished. Tags may be added as the story progresses. Big BIG love to my beta reader yukiayanami.

***

_ “I’ve watched every single one of us… to the place that Stanley wound up. That’s how we end.” _

***

It was fucked up when Richie heard her the first time. Now after everything, after making it out of Derry alive, it’s somehow only gotten worse as it plays on repeat in his head. 

Bill’s career is skyrocketing to even newer heights. He’s really a household name now. He and Audra are good, stable. Bill’s been in therapy since his first week home and he’s been the biggest advocate for the rest of the group to get on board with their own trauma management. Richie tells him his first appointment with a new therapist is next and he’s really looking forward to it, he swears. 

Mike has been going through quite a bit of culture shock, but in a good way. His madness, the stir-crazy cabin fever of being stuck in Derry his whole life, has transformed into a grossly cliche lust for life and every new experience he can get his hands on. He still likes to hop back and forth between the couches of Bill, Bev, and Ben. Richie has offered his as well, but whenever Mike tries to set a date there’s a last minute show, or an audition Richie has simply forgotten about. 

Ben and Beverley are everywhere. Bev texts Richie during his live shows to give him shit about how unfunny he is. Ben calls him at least once a week and the sincerity of his interest in Richie’s life is always the highlight of Richie’s day. Between all of that, they show up on magazine covers and celebrity gossip sites; the world’s most brilliant architect and the world’s most talented designer. They’re adorably happy and perfect for each other. It’s disgusting and Richie loves it. He tells them that they’re getting boring, though, and if they want to stay relevant Bev should get pregnant or Ben should have an affair… or both. 

Richie knows they’re onto him. After years of living his bullshit trash talk, years worth of recovered memories, pulling him out of the collapsing earth, they can see through him. He can avoid their physical presence for a while, but not forever. He’s changed. He’s missing something. He can hear it in his voice. And if Richie Tozier is self aware enough to actually hear the sadness in his voice, then he knows the rest of the world can too. 

So Richie knows the Losers are probably planning something for him. Probably right now. Maybe they’re setting up the cake and intervention banner in his kitchen right now. They’ll be waiting all night and when the sun sets and they start to actually worry, to start making frantic phone calls, they’ll already be too late. 

Richie Tozier is in Derry. 

He’d thought for a while about where exactly in Derry he should be. The inn was tempting. It was warm, comfortable, and private. He could do it just like Stan and it left him more dignity than the other option. But it felt too far away. The library, arcade, and the city center he ruled out for the same reason. The kissing bridge was tempting; if only he had shared that spot with Eddie. No, it was still too far away. The clubhouse was the next best alternative and felt like a second home, but even Richie wasn’t asshole enough to taint his friends happier memories like that. No, it had to be The Crater Formerly Known as The House on Neibolt or through The Barrens and back into the sewers. The crater had been slowly filling in, loose dirt and gravity working its time magic, so Richie turned back around and headed straight for The Barrens. 

After setting his affairs in order enough to ensure he wasn’t found or followed too quickly and that Mike would inherit his property, he’d gone full autopilot. The plane trip, travel arrangements... did he even pack a bag? It was all just fuzzy static. Richie let himself be numb as he made his way back to - 

Every night, Eddie’s bloody lips and torso are the last thing Richie can see. Every morning he wakes up to the feeling of too-warm liquid falling across his face. Any time he tries to put his hands in his jacket pockets, there is a stomach dropping echo of the sensation of an open, squishy wound just under the fabric. His own pulse mirrors the unstoppable flow of blood as Eddie’s heart had unknowingly brought him closer to the end. When he’s able to stop thinking about all that he’s numb, like he’s slowly floating away from his body. That’s almost worse. 

He’s cancelled half his shows in the last year and the critics tear him a new asshole for every booking he does keep. Last night he was supposed to be in Fresno. Richie didn’t even bother to show. Instead, he had turned off his phone and bought a plane ticket to Maine. 

_ “No one who dies in Derry really dies.” _

Bev had told him that, months after, while recounting her own private clown show. Rich didn’t know if it was supposed to be comforting or not. He doesn’t think Bev knew either. It was probably bullshit anyway, something It had said to fuck with her. Just some psycho-horror nonsense. Besides, with It gone, so was everyone else. No more zombies. No more screwed up magical physics. No more twisted cosmic energy or whatever. 

No more Eddie. 

_ No one who dies in Derry really dies. _

It was equally a gaping void of an idea as well as a point of light. Richie tried not to think about it, but his willpower was sapped and he was so damn tired. And angry. He’s not fooling himself though. There is no real hope. He’s here to die; to be as close to Eddie as he possibly can. Because he is sorry he couldn't stop It. Because he couldn’t save Eddie. Because he left him there in the dark in the _ fucking sewer. _

The sun is out, but it’s not reaching anything beyond the overgrowth around the outside edge of the drainage pipe. Richie walks in without a second thought. He takes the turns he thinks will take him closer to the place under Neibolt, relying on his brain’s map of Derry. It doesn’t register that he really should have been stopped by at least one grate. He can’t see anything. It’s been pitch black since his first dozen steps. Slimy brick walls help him navigate by touch alone. Several times he stumbles over something floating in the gray water, but he doesn’t care. 

Finally, he stops. Something feels right. He leans against the wall and begins to let himself crumble, one hand on the small knife in his jacket pocket. 

“Richie..?” 

The voice, a whisper, almost doesn’t register. Richie’s pretty sure he’s done the deed already and he’s just a ghost now. Or he’s bleeding out and his mind is hearing what it wants to. 

“Richie, I'm scared. It’s so cold.” 

But Richie is cold too. And wet. He can feel so much suddenly, the grit of the sewage against his ankles, the body-warm metal of the knife still in his pocket, the wafting stink of shit all around him, and the darkness is abruptly disorienting and terrifying and _ wrong. _ He’s straight on his feet again in a second, pushing away from the bricks, sprinting haphazardly toward where he thinks the voice is. 

“Eddie! Eddie? Eddie, I’m here, I’m right here!” 

He thinks he’s moving forward in one direction, but his foot connects with something and he goes stumbling off kilter for a few steps before he can manage a straight path again. There should have been an impact, a wall, but there’s nothing. Has the passage widened that much? Is that possible? Real panic is setting in, Richie is losing control of his breathing. The voice has gone silent. Richie stops. He’s going to be sick. He’s lost, completely lost. 

“Eddie, where are you?” he sobs. 

It’s so utterly silent. There is no drip or echo of splashing water. A small sob hiccups out of him. If this is hell than Richie is _ impressed _because nothing could be worse than having Eddie call out for him for eternity and props to whatever deity design this for him. 

“I’m right here, Richie.” 

Eddie’s voice is so close, no more than a few feet in front of him now. There’s a jolt of a thought from Richie’s animal hindbrain. _ This isn’t right. This isn’t possible. _But Richie wants this to be real more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life. So he goes forward and the ground gets steeper, until he can feel that he’s on dry rock. Two more steps and he shoe connects with something large. 

“I was starting to think you were going to leave me down here alone forever, asshole!” It’s definitely Eddie’s voice coming from below Richie, less calm and louder than that first whisper. His voice is hoarse and cracking. Like he’s hurt. Like there’s something stuck in his throat. Eddie’s voice coughs. “Hey! We need to get out of here! Help me.” Something grips Richie’s wrist and he pulls it back instinctively, but the grip is firm. He wants to run. He wants to help Eddie up. His brain and body can’t seem to get on the same page and he just wants out of the darkness so bad. 

“Richie please, I really need to get to a hospital, man. I’m disgusting, I’m going to die down here, please-” 

Richie drops to his knees and reaches out where he thinks Eddie’s face should be. Yup, that feels like a human face. The gauze pad on Eddie’s cheek is gone, but Richie’s thumb passes over the open wound on his face instead. 

“Ow, what the _ fuck _is wrong with you?!” 

There’s still a hand on his arm and now one on his shoulder. Normal human hands. 

“Eddie? It’s really you?” Richie whispers.

“What’s wrong with you? Did you hit your head or something? Did we win? I can’t see anything.” Eddie starts to pull himself up using Richie’s shoulder. Richies stops him with a hand on his torso and sure enough, he comes into contact with a soft, moist, disquieting wound larger than his hand. Eddie yells out in pain, “Richie! _ Whatthefuck!” _ and he’s actively crying now and that finally snaps Richie into action. 

“Shit! Shit, sorry buddy. Let’s go, c’mon, up you go.” Most of Eddie’s weight rests on Richie’s neck and shoulder as they push up from the craggly rock surface and make their way back through the sewers. 

There’s a lot of bitching coming from Eddie and Richie is sure to tell him so (“I can’t believe you right now asshole, I’m fucking _ dying. _ You should be _ carrying _ me right now-”) as they make quick work of the tunnels. The brick has reappeared and the halls have an echo again, a reassuring sign that they’re not walking further into an endless abyss. At some point RIch feels something sharp poking his arm, _ probably the loose knife in your pocket, genius, _ but it’s gone in a moment. They can’t see anything still, but Eddie is blathering constantly about the pain or how much Richie sucks and his voice is a comfortable distraction. If Eddie starts to slow down, Richies finds a way to start a “your mom” joke and it sets Eddie right off again. Too easily and too quickly, the ground is faintly lit by cool evening sunlight. Both men are panting as they throw themselves through the curtain of foliage and collapse in the slightly cleaner rocky shallows. Eddie is laughing, a manic and breathy sound of incredulity and relief. Richie hasn’t turned his head yet. _ Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look at him. _Just keeps staring down, transfixed on the running water in front of him and he’s planning on just closing his eyes and crashing right here and if he’s lucky he’ll just wake up in his bed- 

A hand reaches across his line of sight to his cheek and turns his head for him. 

“We did it! We’re out, Rich, we can go _ home!” _

It’s Eddie. He’s bloody and smiling and he looks exhausted and, honestly, he looks like total shit, but all things considered that’s not bad. He’s wearing Rich’s leather jacket, free hand clutching it tightly over his abdomen. But it’s definitely Eddie and he’s here and alive and kissable and- 

Eddie’s smile disappears when he coughs and a little blood falls out of the corner of his mouth. 

-and he’s going to die anyway if they don't get back up now. Richie doesn’t know when he started crying too, but they’re both sobbing messes as they get up and limp away in the general direction of medical attention. Richies is still holding up the majority of Eddie’s weight and he’s so heavy and warm (incredibly so actually), but he’s going to make it. Eddie has steadily gotten quieter, obviously concentrating on not dying, so Richie’s mouth takes up all that slack too. 

“Hope you’re ready for some hot hospital sponge bath action. Unfortunately I think the only nurse in Derry is an 85-year-old man. At least that’s still an upgrade from your wife. I bet if you ask nicely he’ll spoon feed you some nasty orange hospital gel that only expired in the 1980s.” 

Eddie laughs at him and it makes Richie feel so _ good. _“I don’t even care anymore, I’ll eat anything. I’m absolutely starving.”


End file.
